Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think
It’s something of a curse, this finding a new roommate thing. I tidied up the premises Thursday night in preparation for another interviewee, and threw in a load of laundry a good half hour before he was scheduled to arrive. Just before doing so, I’d moved the askew washer(spin cycle always sends it bouncing out of place) back in place parallel to the dryer.
So, dudefriend calls to let me know he’s in the vicinity and looking for our apartment when I head downstairs prepared to wave him down–and enter the set of "The Titanic". A shallow, albeit palpable, layer of water covered our linoleum floor in the entranceway, and had begun seeping into the living room carpet. In moving the washer back into place, I’d disconnected one of the outlet hoses causing muthafuckin’ Niagra indoors.
Mortified, but still managing to muster my best HR poker face, I invited the guy in and attempted to give a tour of the apartment and entreat introductory chit chat with my wet jean cuffs rolled up and holy white light ankles on display. To add insult to injury, he was this tall, buff hottie–who unfortunately was also, I think, uncomfortable with my being gay. But what does it matter anyways? Who would want to live in a place whose first impression included a rebel floor flood at the front door. Ugh, cripes.
